


Sherlock in Oz

by ChrisCalledMeSweetie



Series: No Place Like Home [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), The Wizard Of Oz (1939)
Genre: Friends to Lovers, Humor, Illustrated, Johnlock Roulette, Lucid Dreaming, M/M, Post Series 1, Tornado Warning, bed sharing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-17
Updated: 2018-06-09
Packaged: 2019-04-24 00:35:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 7,207
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14344242
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChrisCalledMeSweetie/pseuds/ChrisCalledMeSweetie
Summary: When Sherlock and John travel to Kansas to help Mrs. Hudson’s niece, the motel has only one room left — with a double bed. So far, everything is predictable. But not for long…





	1. Kansas

**Author's Note:**

  * For [DaisyFairy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/DaisyFairy/gifts), [PatPrecieux](https://archiveofourown.org/users/PatPrecieux/gifts), [NovaNara](https://archiveofourown.org/users/NovaNara/gifts).



> This story takes place shortly after series 1.

“Mrs. Hudson wasn’t kidding about Kansas being flat,” John says with a sigh.

 

Sherlock can’t argue. The land is flat. The _Vacancy/No Vacancy_ sign in font of this rundown motel is lying flat on the ground at his feet. And the tyre on the rental car they abandoned on the side of the road half a mile away is undeniably flat.

 

John’s voice is as flat as Kansas when he adds, “I suppose we’d better see if they have any rooms available.”

 

There is a room — singular. Sherlock takes the key card from the bored-looking young man at the desk and leads the way along the row of numbered doors until they come to 114. 

 

Inside, it is clean but cramped. A double bed takes up most of the small space. It is flanked by two tiny end tables — one with a lamp on it, the other with a phone. There’s also a chest of drawers with a television bolted to the top, and a single arm chair. The en suite has a shower stall but no bath. 

 

Sherlock lifts the handset of the ancient phone. No dial tone. He reads the instructions printed on the base and tries to call the front desk. Nothing. He slams it back down.

 

“Problem?” John asks.

 

“No service. I don’t know how people communicate in this country, with no mobile reception, and landlines that don’t work. There isn’t even any Wi-Fi here. How are we supposed to contact someone about fixing that flat?”

 

“I’ll go talk to the manager,” John offers.

 

Sherlock grunts and heads into the loo.

 

When John returns, his face is grim. “He said, and I quote, ‘The phone lines are down, and there’s no cell towers out here in West Bumfuck.’”

 

Sherlock snorts.

 

“He also told me there’s a garage about ten miles down the road, but it won’t be open until Monday morning.”

 

“If those idiots at the rental company had left a spare tyre in the boot, we wouldn’t be in this mess.”

 

“If I hadn’t been so jet lagged when we picked the car up, I probably would have thought to check. But it looks like we’re stuck here for the weekend, so we’d better go get our bags.”

 

Sherlock and John head back to the car, which is waiting forlornly on the verge where they’d left it. They do a bit of rearranging, so that everything they’ll need for the weekend is in their smaller rolling bags. The larger suitcases are relegated to the boot, where, John remarks wryly, there’s plenty of space, since the spare tyre is missing.

 

Back at the motel, they take turns in the shower, washing away the accumulated grime of travel. As Sherlock towels off, he thinks back over the series of unfortunate events that have plagued the previous 24 hours — delayed flights, missed connections, and now this trouble with the car. He wishes he’d never agreed to this trip. But then again, how could he say “no” to a request for help from Mrs. Hudson? 

 

Stepping out of the en suite, Sherlock sees that John has procured a variety of unappealing snacks from the vending machine and laid them out on the bed. Sherlock eyes them with distaste. 

 

“You really should eat something,” John says.

 

“If there was any _food_ available, I’d consider it,” Sherlock responds, glaring at the array of brightly coloured packages. 

 

“Well, at least have something to drink.”

 

“I don’t suppose there’s any tea?”

 

“Not proper tea, no. But I did buy this can of something called Arizona Iced Tea.”

 

“I thought we were in Kansas.”

 

“Don’t over-analyse it, Sherlock. Just drink it.”

 

“Fine.”

 

John flips on the telly. The screen slowly comes to life, showing a long list of scheduled programmes.

 

“Oh! _The Wizard of Oz_ is on in ten minutes. Want to watch?”

 

“What’s it about?”

 

“Don’t tell me you’ve never seen _The Wizard of Oz._ It’s a classic!”

 

“If it’s a classic, I was probably forced to watch it as a child, but I’ve deleted it.”

 

“Well, then, you’re in for a treat,” John says, selecting the listed channel.

 

Sherlock seriously doubts that, but he supposes it won’t be too painful. He sweeps the remaining snacks off the bed and onto the floor before flopping down.

 

“Hey!” John says, bending to retrieve the fallen items. “That’s my dinner!”

 

He picks up a Snickers bar and chucks it at Sherlock’s head.

 

Sherlock catches the candy. He raises one eyebrow. “Not a very nutritious meal, _Doctor.”_

 

“You’re one to talk. Anyway, I’m on holiday. It’s a well-known medical fact that you can eat whatever you want when you’re on holiday.”

 

“Our holiday doesn’t start until after we’ve solved this case for Mrs. Hudson’s niece.”

 

“Well, there’s nothing we can do about that right now, so let’s just watch the movie and try to enjoy ourselves.”

 

John grabs a couple of pillows and places them against the wall where the headboard would be if this were a proper bed in a proper hotel. Sherlock follows suit, and they lean back together, side by side on the bed.

 

The film begins, and Sherlock has to admit that it does seem vaguely familiar. By the time Dorothy lands in Oz, he’s sure that he’s seen it before, though he can’t for the life of him remember the plot.

 

Shortly after Dorothy meets the Scarecrow, the screen flashes blue, and there is a loud, insistent _BEEEEP_. A voice announces, “We interrupt this program because of a local emergency. Important information will follow.”

 

The words EMERGENCY ALERT SYSTEM appear on the screen. The announcer’s voice says, 

 

_“The National Weather Service in Dodge City has issued a tornado warning for Greeley and Wallace counties in Kansas. A confirmed large and very dangerous tornado has been spotted 6 miles southeast of Tribune, heading north at 40 miles per hour. The following impacts are expected: flying debris will be dangerous to those caught without shelter; mobile homes will be severely damaged or destroyed; significant damage to roofs, windows, and vehicles will occur; tree damage is likely. To repeat: A tornado warning has been issued. Take precautions now.”_

 

John laughs as the programme cuts to a commercial break.

 

“What’s so funny?” Sherlock asks.

 

“They’re doing a _War of the Worlds_ thing.”

 

_“War of the Worlds?”_

 

“I suppose you deleted that, too. Back in the late 1930s, around the same time this film was released, there was a radio broadcast based on H.G. Wells’ _War of the Worlds_. They made it seem like actual emergency announcements interrupting their regularly scheduled dance music, and it caused a panic, because people thought aliens were really invading.”

 

“Seriously?”

 

“We’re in America, remember. So, I guess they’re making this imaginary tornado alert in the same style, to get people more invested in the film. I wonder if anyone will fall for it.”

 

“As you pointed out, we’re in America, so the chances are good.”

 

_The Wizard of Oz_ resumes, and Sherlock finds, to his surprise, that he’s enjoying it. There’s something pleasant about sitting next to John, their shoulders nearly touching, their legs stretched out along the bed, with John’s sock-clad toes barely reaching as far as Sherlock’s ankles. John sings along with every song, and Sherlock finds this ridiculously charming.

 

John has just finished a rousing rendition of “If I Only Had the Nerve” when the film is once again interrupted by the Emergency Alert System.

 

_“A tornado warning remains in effect for Greeley and Wallace counties. You are in a life-threatening situation. Mobile homes will be destroyed. Considerable damage to homes, businesses, and vehicles is likely, and complete destruction possible. Flying debris will be deadly to people and animals. Expect trees to be uprooted or snapped. To repeat: A large, extremely dangerous and potentially deadly tornado is on the ground. To protect your life, take cover now.”_

 

Sherlock and John grin at each other as the Cowardly Lion reappears on the screen.

 

Rain begins striking the windows, hard enough that John has to turn up the volume on the telly. Sherlock enjoys the sound of the rain. It reminds him that he and John are inside — warm, and dry, and together.

 

The next interruption comes after Dorothy and her companions reach the Emerald City. The now-familiar announcer’s voice comes on, this time sounding a bit more urgent.

 

_“A tornado warning remains in effect for Greeley and Wallace counties. This is an emergency. A confirmed large, violent, and extremely dangerous tornado is on the ground. Complete destruction of neighbourhoods, businesses, and vehicles will occur. Flying debris will be deadly to people and animals. This is an extremely dangerous tornado with complete devastation likely. You could be killed if not underground or in a tornado shelter. Do not delay. Seek shelter now. If no underground shelter is available, seek shelter in an interior room on the lowest level of a sturdy building. Avoid windows. Repeating: To protect your life, take cover now.”_

 

John stands up. “I’m heading to the loo. I guess that counts as an interior room,” he jokes.

 

Sherlock watches the door close behind him. The bed feels strangely empty. “Don’t be silly,” he chides himself.

 

There is a deep rumbling sound from outside. Sherlock catches movement out of the corner of his eye just before something heavy strikes his temple, knocking him unconscious.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cliffhanger!!!
> 
> Unlike my other current WIP, I'm not promising a particular posting schedule with this story. So, if you don't want to miss the next chapter (Spoiler: it's entitled "Not in Kansas Anymore") please hit the subscribe button.
> 
> Kind comments and kudos make me smile. :)


	2. Not in Kansas Anymore

Sherlock wakes to a roar like an oncoming freight train. In a moment of disorientation, he wonders whether he’s been kidnapped and tied to railroad tracks. No — that only happens in old films. 

 

Sherlock is so dizzy, it feels as though the whole room is spinning. Forcing his eyes open against a wave of nausea, he discovers why: the whole room _is_ spinning.  

 

In a rush, it comes back to him — the trip to Kansas, the motel, the tornado warning. Those emergency broadcasts had not been a hoax. The tornado is real. It has lifted his motel room clean off its foundation, and is hurling it around and around and around through the air.

 

_John!_ _Where is John?!_

 

Sherlock staggers upright, clutching the bed for support. He turns to the en suite, where John had been when the tornado struck. To his horror, he sees that where the door should be there is only a gaping hole. 

 

_“John!”_ Sherlock cries. But his voice is lost in the roaring wind. 

 

Suddenly the spinning stops, and the motel room plummets toward the ground. Sherlock throws himself flat on the bed and hangs on for dear life. After what feels like an eternity, the room lands with a sickening thud. 

 

Sherlock stands up on wobbly legs. He is surprised to find that, aside from a tender spot on the side of his head, he has miraculously survived unscathed. Stumbling to the open doorway, he gazes outside, trying to get his bearings. 

 

The motel room doesn’t seem to be in Kansas anymore. Instead, Sherlock’s eyes fall on a world filled with unnaturally vivid rainbow-hued flowers. It takes him a moment to process what he’s seeing. Once he does, though, he sighs with relief. He must have fallen asleep while watching _The Wizard of Oz_ with John, and now he’s dreaming about it. 

 

Sherlock is no stranger to lucid dreams. He has them fairly often, and they make sleep less tedious. It’s interesting to see where his sleeping mind takes him. He is able to exert a fair amount of control over the content of the dreams if he so chooses; and knowing that he’s dreaming allows him to wake himself up at will.

 

Sherlock considers waking himself up now, but decides against it. It’s been 36 hours since he last slept — not a record for him, by any means, but coupled with the jet lag it’s probably taking a toll on his mind and body. Life with John has made him more aware of such things. If he wants to be in top form to solve this case for Mrs. Hudson’s niece, he should allow himself to sleep through the night.

 

Sherlock steps out into the bright sunshine. An iridescent bubble floats down from the sky, bursting in front of him to reveal Molly Hooper, wearing a long, flowing gown, and carrying a wand. As soon as her feet touch the ground, she begins to sing:

 

_Ding dong, the Jim is dead_  
_Which old Jim?_  
_The gay old Jim_  
_Ding dong, the gay old Jim is dead_  
_Wake up, you sleepyhead_  
_Rub your eyes, get out of bed_  
_Wake up, the gay old Jim is dead_  
_He’s gone where the goblins go_  
_Below, below, below_  
_Yo-ho, let’s open up_  
_And sing and ring the bells out_  
_His ding-dong’s been flattened, oh_  
_Sing it high, sing it low_  
_Let them know the gay old Jim is dead!_

 

Molly gestures with her wand to a pair of feet sticking out from under the fallen motel room. They are clad in a pair of glittering rainbow slippers. Sherlock grins at the thought of Moriarty lying crushed on the ground.

 

Suddenly there is a puff of rainbow smoke, and when it clears, Moriarty is standing there.

 

“You’re supposed to be dead,” Sherlock says. 

 

Moriarty laughs. “That was my double — the Gay Old Jim from I.T. _I’m_ the Wicked Jim of the Westwood — and don’t I look fabulous in this suit? The only thing I need to complete my ensemble is a pair of rainbow slippers. And luckily for me, one’s just become available.”

 

Sherlock stares at Moriarty. He is, indeed, wearing the same Vivienne Westwood suit Sherlock had last seen him in at the pool a couple of months ago.

 

“Not so fast,” Molly says, with steel in her voice. “Jim from I.T. was _my_ boyfriend, and _I’ll_ be the one to decide where his rainbow slippers go.”

 

She waves her wand, and the slippers magically appear on Sherlock’s feet. He finds them surprisingly comfortable.

 

“Give me those slippers!” Moriarty demands.

 

“Not a chance,” Sherlock tells him.

 

Moriarty makes a threatening move towards Sherlock, but Molly steps in between them. 

 

“Be gone!” she commands. “You have no power here.”

 

Moriarty points his finger at Sherlock. “I’ll get you, my pretty — and your little dog, too!” he cackles.

 

“I’m not your pretty, and I don’t have a dog,” Sherlock retorts, but Moriarty disappears in a puff of rainbow smoke without responding.

 

“Whose dog is that, then?” Molly asks.

 

Sherlock looks down to see a scruffy cairn terrier at his feet. He squats down to get a better look. The dog puts his front paws up on Sherlock’s knees and licks his chin. That settles it.

 

“Mine,” he says. 

 

“Good,” says Molly. “Now, you’ll be wanting to see the Wizard, right?”

 

Sherlock decides to go with it. “Sure,” he answers.

 

“Then follow the rainbow brick road.”

 

“The rainbrow bick road?”

 

Molly giggles. “I guess it’s a bit of a tongue-twister. But it will take you all the way to the Rainbow City.”

 

“Shouldn’t there be ruby slippers and a yellow brick road and an emerald city? Why is everything rainbow-coloured here?”

 

“To make it gay, of course! Now, follow the rainbow brick road. And don’t forget to do that cute little skipping dance,” Molly says. Then she breaks back into song:

 

_Follow the rainbow brick road_  
_Follow the rainbow brick road_  
_Follow, follow, follow, follow_  
_Follow the rainbow brick road_

 

Sherlock puts his feet on the rainbow brick road and obediently begins a pas de basque before heading off at a gay chassé. The little terrier trots jauntily along at his side.

 

Molly claps her hands, singing:

 

_You’re off to see the Wizard_  
_The wonderful Wizard of Oz_  
_You’ll find she is a whiz of a Wiz_  
_If ever a Wiz there was_  
_If ever, oh ever, a Wiz there was_  
_The Wizard of Oz is one because_  
_Because, because, because, because, because_  
_Because of the wonderful things she does_  
_You’re off to see the Wizard_  
_The wonderful Wizard of Oz!_

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Who do you think Sherlock will meet in the next chapter? 
> 
> While you're waiting to find out, I'm sure you'll enjoy PatPrecieux's enchanting Tornado Tune, linked below. :D


	3. Alarming Kinks

Sherlock sashays along the rainbow brick road until he’s out of Molly’s sight before slowing to a walk. He looks down at the dog, whose short legs still have to trot at double-time to keep up with his long strides.

 

“Are you Toto?” Sherlock asks.

 

Even though this is a dream, the terrier seems disinclined to speak. Instead, he wags his tail and looks up at Sherlock with a doggy grin. Sherlock takes this as a “Yes.”

 

“Well, Toto,” he says, “we’re off to see the Wizard. Who do you think she’ll be? My money is on Mrs. Hudson.”

 

Toto frisks about at Sherlock’s feet, as if to say, “I’m sure you’re right, and she’s bound to have biscuits for me, so let’s go!”

 

Sherlock and Toto continue along the rainbow brick road, which spools out ahead of them like the world’s longest pride flag. Eventually, they come to an intersection, with paths leading off in all directions.

 

“Which way do you think we should go, Toto?” Sherlock asks.

 

“That way is a very nice way,” comes a voice.

 

“Oh, so you’ve decided to talk after all,” Sherlock says, smiling down at the dog. 

 

“That way is good, too,” the voice adds, and Sherlock realises it’s not coming from Toto.

 

“Who said that?” he asks.

 

“It’s me, Greg.”

 

Looking around, Sherlock sees a familiar figure, dressed as a scarecrow, hanging on a post in a nearby cornfield. “Lestrade!” he cries. “Why are you calling yourself Greg?”

 

“It’s my name.”

 

“Huh. Well, I guess since this is a dream you can call yourself whatever you want. And it makes sense that you’d be the Scarecrow, since you generally haven’t got a clue.”

 

Lestrade gives an exaggerated sigh, and begins to sing:

 

 _I could be a fine detective_  
_Not woeful or defective_  
_It wouldn’t be a strain_  
_I could solve every cri-ime_  
_Do it all in record ti-ime_  
_If I only had a brain_  
  
_Oh, I could tell you how_  
_To reach the rainbow town_  
_‘Cause I’m the very best tour guide around_  
_If you’ll only get me down_  
  
_I could help you with your travels_  
_See how your quest unravels_  
_Along this rainbow lane_  
_We could go to Rainbow City_  
_I would not be just a pretty_  
_Face, if I could have a brain_

 

“So, what do you say?” Lestrade asks. “Will you help get me off of this post?”

 

  

Sherlock moves closer to examine the scarecrow. “I always knew you had a stick up your arse,” he says, “but I never realised it was this literal.”

 

With a bit of maneuvering, Sherlock manages to free the scarecrow.

 

“Thanks!” Lestrade says. “I was getting awfully stiff up there, if you know what I mean.”

 

Sherlock rolls his eyes. “Make yourself useful, for once,” he says. “Tell me how to get to the Rainbow City.”

 

“I can do better than that — I’ll come with you,” says Lestrade.

 

Sherlock acquiesces, and they set off together down the leftmost fork of the rainbow brick road. 

 

It isn’t long before they spot a tin man standing motionless by the side of the road, leaning on a folded umbrella. Sherlock tries to hurry past, but Lestrade grabs his shoulder, stopping him.

 

“Look! A man made out of tin. Isn’t he dapper? Isn’t he handsome? Isn’t he perfect?”

 

“Oh my god!” cries Sherlock. “I knew you were brainless, but this is going too far! Stay away from that man — he’s nothing but trouble!”

 

“Do you know him?”

 

“Unfortunately,” Sherlock mutters, with a baleful look at the tin version of his brother.

 

 

“I think he just needs to loosen up a bit,” says Lestrade. He picks up an oilcan that’s sitting on a nearby stump and begins applying oil to all of the Tin Man’s joints. He finishes up by squirting some between his metallic lips. 

 

“Oh, that feels wonderful,” says Mycroft, stretching. “I always do appreciate a good lube.”

 

“That’s it — I’m done!” Sherlock snaps. “I don’t care if my body’s still jet-lagged. This dream has turned into a nightmare. I’m waking myself up now.”

 

But Sherlock doesn’t wake up. Instead, Moriarty appears in a puff of rainbow smoke. In a taunting voice, he begins to sing an old song by the Kinks — but the words have been alarmingly altered:

 

 _I see you’re in a dream in the land of Oz_  
_With a tin man and a scarecrow without a diploma_  
_No brains, no diploma_  
_You want to wake up but it’s not happening_  
_You want to know why? It’s because you are in a coma_  
_C - O - M - A coma, c-c-c-c-coma_  
  
_Well I am the world’s most fabulous guy_  
_From France to Argentina or from Kansas by_  
_Oklahoma, ho-ho-homo-homa_  
_And you’re sure dumb if you can’t understand_  
_That this isn’t just a trip to a fun dreamland_  
_It’s a coma, c-c-c-c-coma, c-c-c-c-coma…_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did you sing along to the tune of Lola?
> 
> What do you think of this chapter? I'm guessing it's good news for those of you who enjoy Mystrade and/or who want Sherlock to stay in Oz a bit longer, but bad news for those who are wanting Sherlock to wake up so we can get back to the real-life bed-sharing. ;)


	4. If I Only Had a Blow Torch

“This is only a dream,” Sherlock insists. “This is only a dream, and I can wake up whenever I want.”

 

“You keep telling yourself that,” Moriarty says with a smirk, “but it won’t make it true. Your body is in a coma, and you, my dear, are trapped here in the gay old land of Oz. Fitting, don’t you think? Since you’ve always been such a Friend of Dorothy. And baby you can ring my bell any time you like…”

 

Moriarty gives a lascivious laugh before disappearing in another puff of rainbow smoke.

 

Sherlock wills himself awake. Nothing happens. 

 

He closes his eyes, telling himself that when he opens them he will be back in the motel room, lying in bed next to John. He counts to ten, then opens his eyes. They are met, not with the welcome sight of his best friend, but with the revolting one of his brother and Lestrade flirting shamelessly with each other.

 

This truly is becoming a nightmare.

 

Sherlock pinches himself, hard. It hurts, but does nothing to change his perception of where he is. Which is, as Moriarty so colourfully put it, in the gay old land of Oz — standing on a rainbow brick road, and watching the unfolding of a horrifying gay love story between a Tin Man and a Scarecrow.

 

Lestrade is falling all over himself, trying to impress Mycroft. That would be bad enough, but to make things worse, Mycroft, instead of turning up his nose at Lestrade’s antics, actually seems to be relishing the attention. In fact, he’s moved to song:

 

 _Although I am made of metal_  
_My chest an empty kettle_  
_I still feel Cupid’s dart_  
_And I think we could be happy_  
_Singing love songs sweet and sappy_  
_If I only had a heart_  
  
_I like everything about you_  
_Within you and without you_  
_I don’t care if you’re not smart_  
_I’d be free from this sorrow_  
_I would marry you tomorrow_  
_If I only had a heart_

 

“Arrgh!” Sherlock cries. “If I only had a blow torch, I’d solder your lips shut!”

 

“Well, that’s not a very polite way to speak to my beloved,” Lestrade says. “Maybe the Wizard can give you some manners. And she’ll give me a brain, and Mycroft a heart, and we’ll all live happily ever after.”

 

“No, we won’t,” snaps Sherlock. “Because this is a dream, and I’m going to wake up now.”

 

But try as he might, Sherlock is unable to wake himself up. It appears that Moriarty was speaking the truth; Sherlock is in a coma.

 

Well, he may be in a coma, but he’s not completely unconscious. He’s still lucid enough to know that this is a dream. And the fact that one of the characters he’s created in this dream has told him he’s in a coma is actually a good sign. It means that part of him is aware of what is happening in the real world.

 

Sherlock brings his hand to his temple. Yes, it is still sore. He recalls catching a glimpse of something flying towards the side of his head just before he fell asleep. No, he amends — just before he was knocked unconscious. 

 

So, what can he deduce? 

 

The tornado was real. It did _not_ pick up his motel room and plop it down in Oz. It did, however, strike with sufficient force to dislodge the window sash and send it hurtling into the room, where it struck him on the temple. His injury must be serious enough to hamper his ability to wake himself up, but not so severe as to render him unaware of the events leading up to it, nor to prevent him from remaining lucid in this dream.

 

Sherlock takes stock of the rest of his body. As far as he can tell, he has sustained no other injuries. Perhaps the tornado passed by quickly, causing minimal damage. Or perhaps the tornado itself never hit the motel, and it was only the strong winds surrounding it that blew the window sash out of its frame.

 

In any case, Sherlock is thankful that John was in the loo at the time. The emergency broadcaster had recommended taking shelter in a windowless interior room, so John is probably safe. Sherlock just hopes he has the sense to stay put until all danger is past.

 

Now, what to do? Every trick Sherlock knows for waking himself from a dream has proved futile. So, if he can’t abort this dream, maybe he needs to follow it through to the end. Then, with any luck, he’ll wake up naturally. 

 

With this goal in mind, Sherlock addresses the Scarecrow and the Tin Man. “All right, let’s go see the Wizard.”

 

Lestrade and Mycroft link arms, Sherlock scoops up Toto, and the four of them set off down the rainbow brick road. The rolling farmland they’ve been passing through gives way to a forest, which becomes darker and gloomier the further they travel. Remembering the film, Sherlock has a pretty good idea of what’s coming next.

 

He wonders who his mind will cast in the part of the Cowardly Lion. So far, no one has been particularly surprising. Molly is as perfect in the role of the good witch as Moriarty is in the role of the wicked one. Sherlock has often commented on the fact that Lestrade lacks the necessary brain power to do his job without the help of the world’s only consulting detective, so of course he’s the Scarecrow. And Mycroft — Mr. Caring-is-Not-an-Advantage — is only too obvious a choice to play the Tin Man without a heart. But no one immediately springs to mind when Sherlock tries to picture one of his acquaintances who lacks courage.  

 

He doesn’t have to wait long to satisfy his curiosity, though. With a fearsome roar, a bipedal lion leaps out in front of them. Sherlock looks in disbelief at his face. 

 

It’s _John_.

 

John is the bravest man he knows; how could Sherlock have cast him as a coward?

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> How would you answer Sherlock’s final question to himself? Let me know in the comments. :)
> 
> You may be familiar with the term Friend of Dorothy as a euphemism for a gay man, but did you know that the Friends of Dorothy Society in the UK is a group of LGBTQ bell ringers? Hence Moriarty’s quip about Sherlock ringing his bell. http://www.lgbthistoryuk.org/wiki/Friends_of_Dorothy_Society
> 
> DaisyFairy made my day (my week, my month, or even my year) when she drew the illustrations of Scarecrow Greg and Tin Man Mycroft that are now included in the previous chapter.
> 
> UPDATE: DanKitty just made my timeless present moment by creating a watercolor painting of [Scarecrow Greg and Tin Man Mycroft in each other's arms](https://chriscalledmesweetie.tumblr.com/post/176250979840/the-scarecrow-and-the-tin-man-for-a-johnlock).


	5. If I Only Had the Nerve

How can John — John the lion-hearted — possibly be the Cowardly Lion? It doesn’t make sense. Yet here he stands, in all his leonine glory, growling and posturing, doing his best to appear tough, while it’s clear — at least to an observer as astute as Sherlock — that inside he is trembling with fear. 

 

 

“John,” Sherlock says, reaching out a hand toward his friend, “what’s happened to you?”

 

John flinches away from Sherlock’s touch, then moves back in closer as he begins to sing:

 

_Oh, it’s hard, believe me, Mister_  
_When you’re caught up in a twister_  
_And your feelings take a swerve_  
_I would tell you what I’m wanting_  
_I would not find it so daunting_  
_If I only had the nerve_  
  
_I’m afraid there’s no denyin’_  
_I am a randy lion_  
_Yet I still feel reserve_  
_‘Cause it’s you that I’m needing_  
_I’d be begging, I’d be pleading_  
_If I only had the nerve_

  
  
Sherlock’s brain goes offline — well, even further offline, considering he’s already in a coma. He stands stupidly in front of John, jaw slack, eyes blinking slowly, as he tries to process the words of the song. 

 

It seems… it almost seems… as if John might be… _interested_ … in Sherlock. In more than a flatmates/colleagues/friends sort of way. In a decidedly more… _interesting_ … way.

 

_Stop_ , Sherlock tells himself. This isn’t John. This is a figment of his brain-damaged imagination. This is insane wish-fulfillment. John is not a lion — cowardly or otherwise. John is a man. An ordinary man. An _extra-_ ordinary man. An extraordinary man with whom Sherlock has been secretly in love for months… _Stop!_

 

_This isn’t real,_ Sherlock reminds himself. This is only a dream, and real John — flesh-and-blood Doctor John — is in a motel room in Kansas, with Sherlock’s comatose body, no doubt doing everything in his prodigious power to take care of him. Sherlock needs to do his part by getting to the end of this dream, so that he can wake up. And then, just maybe, he’ll find the courage himself to have a conversation with John…

 

“Come on,” Sherlock says, linking his arm with Lion-John’s. “We’re off to see the Wizard, and I’m sure she’ll give you some courage.” 

 

Away they go, down the rainbow brick road, and if the forest suddenly seems a bit less gloomy, well, no one but Sherlock needs to know why.

 

_…_

 

At last, the unlikely companions emerge into bright sunshine. In the distance, the Rainbow City rises in glittering splendor. In front of them, the rainbow brick road disappears under a profusion of multi-hued flowers.

 

With their goal in sight, Sherlock dashes forward, dragging John along with him. Lestrade and Mycroft follow in their wake. Toto gambols around their feet, his pricked ears and wagging tail bouncing in and out of view.

 

Their headlong rush toward the Rainbow City gradually slows. The farther they travel, the heavier their footsteps become. Soon, they begin to stumble. 

 

Sherlock realises, too late, that they are in a field of opium poppies. He slowly sinks to the ground in a stupor. The flowers swirl around him in a haze of red, orange, yellow, green, blue, indigo, and violet — a seven poppy solution.

 

Next to him, John curls up in a ball, his maned head resting on his oversized paws. Toto flops down on his other side. Both begin to snore.

 

Sherlock fights to stay awake. _This can’t be good_ , he thinks desperately. _Falling asleep in a dream when I’m already in a coma can_ ** _not_** _be good._  

 

But he is powerless to resist the pull of unconsciousness. His rainbow surroundings gradually fade to black. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A million thanks to DaisyFairy for her delightful illustration of Lion John - complete with oatmeal jumper and rainbow pants!
> 
> UPDATE: Check out the [wonderful watercolor of Sherlock and Lion John](https://chriscalledmesweetie.tumblr.com/post/175042795985/if-i-only-had-the-nerve-i-finally-finished-it) created by DanKitty.


	6. The Gay Old Land of Oz

Sherlock wakes to a feeling of cold kisses against his face. He blinks his eyes open to see fat snowflakes falling on a sea of rainbow flowers. So, he’s not _awake_ awake, then. But any consciousness is better than none.

 

Molly hovers over him, in her guise as the Good Witch. As she waves her wand, one last cascade of snowflakes descends before she floats away in an iridescent bubble. Sherlock smiles his thanks as he watches her go.

 

The cold of the snowflakes against his cheeks is replaced by a warm, wet tongue. Sherlock laughs as Toto lavishes him with doggy kisses. His laughter turns to simulated retching, though, as he looks past the little terrier to where Lestrade is kneeling with his face in Mycroft’s tin crotch.

 

“Eeeuuuckkk!” he cries. “What are you doing???”

 

Lestrade pulls away from Mycroft, holding up the oil can. “I’m just making sure to keep him well-lubed,” he says with a wink. “I wouldn’t want him to rust in all this snow.”

 

“Have you lost your mind?!” Sherlock demands. “Oh — right — you don’t have a brain. That explains everything.”

 

Lestrade doesn’t reply, instead pulling a handful of straw out of his raggedy clothes and using it to tenderly wipe the remaining snow from Mycroft’s tin body. Sherlock can’t bear the smug look on his brother’s face, and turns away.

 

As he rolls over on the ground, he’s met by a much more pleasant sight: John — in his lion form — yawning and stretching in a frankly adorable way. Sherlock can’t help the smile that blooms across his face any more than he can stop the flutter of his heart.

 

John rumbles out a growling purr, and returns the smile. “Shall we?” he asks, rising to his feet and holding out a paw to help Sherlock up.

 

“Yes,” Sherlock says. They link arms, and set off once more for the Rainbow City.

 

…

 

It isn’t long before Sherlock and his companions leave the poppies behind and once again find the rainbow brick road under their feet. It winds its way up a hill until it dead-ends at the wall surrounding the aptly named Rainbow City.

 

Sherlock pulls the bell cord conveniently-located beside the gate. A hole opens in the rainbow wall, and the gatekeeper — who looks exactly like Mike Stamford — pops his head out. He scans the assembled group.

 

 

“Well, it looks as if you’ve already met, so you won’t be needing me,” he says, and promptly disappears.

 

Sherlock seizes a huge, glittery door-knocker and raps it smartly three times. Mike reappears.

 

“Yes?” he says. “What is it now?”

 

“We’re here to see the Wizard,” Sherlock says.

 

“Oh — well, why didn’t you say so? Come in, come in,” Mike replies, ushering them inside.

 

As Sherlock, John, Mycroft, Greg, and Toto step through the gate into the Rainbow City, Mike sings a welcoming tune:

 

_Ha ha ha, ho ho ho_  
_And a couple of tra-la-las_  
_That's how we laugh the day away_  
_In the Gay Old Land of Oz_

 

Now that they’re finally inside the Rainbow City, Sherlock feels a sense of mingled anticipation and dread. He’s reached the place where the film he was watching with real-life John was interrupted by the third and final tornado warning, and he was transported to this alternate reality/dream/nightmare/coma. He suddenly realises the flaw in his plan of following the story through to its conclusion: he doesn’t know how it ends.

 

Sherlock wracks his brain, searching for childhood memories of having watched _The Wizard of Oz_ , but either he’s completely deleted them or his coma-addled mind can’t access the links. Surely the film must have had a happy ending. But what form would that have taken? 

 

Would the Wizard simply have waved his wand and whisked Dorothy back to Kansas? No. What good would that have done? Her home in Kansas had been so grey and dreary and dull. Oz was clearly superior to it in every way. 

 

Still, Dorothy _had_ wanted to go back there, and so did Sherlock. Not for anything Kansas itself had to offer, but because that’s where John was. Wherever John was would always be home to Sherlock. The only possible happy ending to this story had to reunite Sherlock with John.    

 

“Mike,” Sherlock says, with renewed determination, “take us to the Wizard.”

 

Mike leads them through the city to a gleaming Rainbow Palace. “You’ll find the Wizard inside,” he says, opening the ornate doors with a bow.

 

Sherlock and his companions enter the palace. A rainbow carpet leads them down a long hall, up a flight of stairs, and across a vast throne room. Seated on the throne is the woman Sherlock had been expecting — and hoping — to see. 

 

“Mrs. Hudson!” Sherlock cries, rushing forward. “You have to help me! I need to be with John. Please, send me back to him.”

 

“I can’t just magic away your problems, Sherlock.”

 

“Of course you can. You’re the Wizard.”

 

“No, I’m not,” Mrs. Hudson says kindly. “I’m you. We’re _all_ you, Sherlock. Everyone you’ve met in Oz. We’re all just aspects of you. The part that you think of as good, and the part that you think of as wicked. Your heart; your brain; your courage. The gatekeeper to the gay palace inside of you that’s been walled off all this time, and the one who provides them a home. The question is: are you ready to bring them all together, and let them be seen?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What do you think will happen next?


	7. In the Dark

Everything is black. Sherlock blinks his eyes several times. Yes, they’re open. Still, he can see nothing but darkness. _Fuck._ As if being in a coma wasn’t bad enough, now he’s gone blind, too.

 

What happened? The last thing Sherlock remembers is Mrs. Hudson asking him if he’s ready to be seen. Well, apparently the answer is “No.” Sherlock can’t even see himself.

 

He takes stock of his situation. He’s lying on a cold, hard surface in a foetal position. His right cheek is resting on something warmer and softer. Aside from the now-familiar pain in his left temple — and the newer, more alarming blindness — he feels fine. So why can’t he see?

 

Sherlock waves a hand in front of his eyes. His fingers brush over fabric. A gasp comes from above him. 

 

“Sherlock?”

 

“John?”

 

“Oh, thank god!”

 

“ _John!_   Wait — which John are you?”

 

“John Watson, your flatmate.”

 

“So, you’re human, then?”

 

“I do my best,” John says dryly.

 

“I’m back in Kansas!” Sherlock cries, with a delight he never thought he’d feel at uttering such words. He tries to sit up, but John’s firm hand on his shoulder holds him in place.

 

“Stay still,” John says. “You’ve been out cold for about twenty minutes. I don’t want you to sit up too quickly and lose consciousness again. How are you feeling?”

 

“Fine,” Sherlock says. “But my eyes aren’t working. Everything’s gone dark.”

 

“The power is out. I can’t see a damn thing, either. The en suite doesn’t have any windows.”

 

Sherlock sighs with relief. He relaxes into the softness beneath his cheek, which he now recognises as John’s pyjama-clad thigh.

 

“A head injury can affect your vision, but we’ll have to wait to check,” John says. “I can assess your cognitive functioning now, though. Who’s the Prime Minister?”

 

“Irrelevant. Some puppet of Mycroft’s, no doubt.”

 

John laughs. “Fair enough. Do you remember what happened?”

 

“We were watching _The Wizard of Oz_ , you went to the loo, then something whacked me on the side of the head and knocked me out.”

 

“That’s about it. I heard the crash. The tornado blew the window sash out of its frame, and it must have hit you. Moving you was less of a risk than leaving you exposed to flying debris, so I carried you in here.”

 

“You carried me?” Sherlock asks dubiously.

 

“I’m stronger than I look. And the adrenaline definitely kicked in when I saw you lying there unconscious. Plus, I guess it’s a good thing that I haven’t been very successful in trying to feed you up. You’re barely over ten stone.”

 

“Hmph.”

 

“I’m sorry I didn’t take those tornado warnings seriously,” John says in a more solemn tone. “I never meant to put you in danger.”

 

“Of course you didn’t,” Sherlock says, squeezing John’s thigh. “I know I can always count on you to protect me.”

 

John’s hand leaves Sherlock’s shoulder and strokes his hair in what feels a lot like a caress. Too soon, though, his fingers are probing at the tender spot on Sherlock’s temple.

 

“Does this hurt?”

 

“When you press on it, yes! Stop that!”

 

“Sorry. Do you have pain anywhere else?”

 

“Not at the moment, but don’t poke me in the eye to test it.”

 

“Sorry,” John says again. “Are you experiencing any dizziness or nausea?”

 

“No.”

 

“Alright. I want you to try to sit up — slowly.”

 

Sherlock does so. The room spins briefly, but his body soon adjusts to the new position. He leans up against the wall next to John, whose back is pressed against the bathroom door. 

 

“I don’t hear any wind or rain,” Sherlock says. “I think the storm is over.”

 

“You stay here — I’ll check.”

 

John rises and carefully cracks the door open. The room on the other side is dark, and still, and quiet. He slips out, closing the door behind him. A few minutes later he returns, lit by his phone.

 

“Aside from the window, there’s not much damage. Most of the broken glass seems to be on the chair and the floor, but I took the bedspread off, just in case. Come on — you’ll be more comfortable in bed, and I’ll have more space to examine you.”

 

John helps Sherlock to his feet, and guides him to sit on the bed. Then there’s poking and prodding, and light shining in his eyes, and a string of tedious questions, until, at last, Sherlock is diagnosed with a mild concussion, but nothing worse.

 

“Good thing you have such a thick skull,” John teases. “I’ll need to keep a close eye on you for the next few days, but you should be fine. You can sleep, if you want. I’ll set my alarm to go off every couple of hours, so I can check on you.”

 

Sherlock slides down between the sheets, and John joins him — near, but not touching. 

 

“I had the most vivid dream,” Sherlock murmurs, half to himself.

 

John makes an encouraging sound, so Sherlock continues.

 

“I was in Oz, and all of the characters looked like people I know. But Mrs. Hudson, who was supposed to be the Wizard, said they were all just aspects of myself.” He pauses, takes a breath, and then adds, “Which makes sense: I’m a cowardly, heartless idiot.”

 

John rolls to face him. “What makes you say that?”

 

Sherlock huffs out a mirthless laugh. “Isn’t it obvious?”

 

“Not to me. I’m an idiot, too, remember?”

 

“John… This is hard… I…”

 

Sherlock trails off, unable to bring himself to say what he’s feeling. _I’m in love with you. I want so much more than friendship. But I’m not willing to risk what we have for the chance at something I can hardly imagine._

 

The room is silent, except for their breathing. The power is still out, but a faint moonlight enters through the hole in the wall where the window had been. Slowly, John reaches out a hand and places it over Sherlock’s.

 

“You know,” John says, “we never finished watching that film. If we had, you’d know that the Scarecrow and the Tin Man and the Lion actually had the brains and heart and courage they needed all along.” He squeezes Sherlock’s hand. “And you do, too.”

 

Sherlock’s brain is whirring. His heart is pounding. He screws up his courage.

 

“John, would you ever consider… a relationship? With me?”

 

“Of course.”

 

“Of course?”

 

John leans forward and places a chaste kiss against Sherlock’s cheek. “Of course I would, you idiot. I’ve been waiting months for this.” John sighs. “But I don’t think we should take things any further until you’ve fully recovered, and I can be sure you aren’t just experiencing a change in mood and behavior in response to a traumatic brain injury.” 

 

“This is not a symptom of brain damage. I’ve been waiting for months, too.”

 

“Well, then, you can wait a little longer. Get some sleep. I’ll be right here.”

 

…

 

By the time the alarm goes off, Sherlock has migrated across the bed, into John’s arms.

 

John silences the alarm and gives Sherlock a squeeze. “Are you still with me?” he asks.

 

“In every way,” Sherlock says, and means it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to J_Baillier for answering my medical questions.
> 
> If you're interested, I wrote a little prequel song to this fic - [Somewhere Over Mrs. Hudson’s Flat](https://archiveofourown.org/works/8242546) \- a year and a half ago, and DaisyFairy was lovely enough to [podfic](https://archiveofourown.org/works/8283275) it for me.


	8. Epilogue

Three love-and-adventure-filled weeks later, Sherlock and John — with their newly-adopted puppy, Toto — return to Baker Street. 

In the end, there’s no place like home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’ve decided to leave the details of those three love-and-adventure-filled weeks — as well as the lifetime ahead of Sherlock and John (and Mycroft and Greg!) — to your fertile imaginations. I hope you’ve enjoyed reading this fic as much as I’ve enjoyed writing it. Kind comments and kudos make me gay. ;-)

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Tornado Tune](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14370615) by [PatPrecieux](https://archiveofourown.org/users/PatPrecieux/pseuds/PatPrecieux)
  * [The Rainbow Road](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14889767) by [PatPrecieux](https://archiveofourown.org/users/PatPrecieux/pseuds/PatPrecieux)
  * [Sherlock in Oz [Podfic]](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17444813) by [ChrisCalledMeSweetie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChrisCalledMeSweetie/pseuds/ChrisCalledMeSweetie), [songlin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/songlin/pseuds/songlin)




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